August 6th, 2018

Last night I scrubbed my brain in a sudsy bubble bath, complete with meandering sentences, exotic words, and the desperate tinge of pity at the plight of poor Jean Valjean. This is what happens when one commits themselves to reading ten pages of classic literature a day – sometimes it’s scintillating, sometimes it as boring as stirring a pot of oatmeal. Last night was one of the better nights. His words and metaphors arose from the grave to make me stammer “Holy fuck this is good,” and I feel like this rarely happens to me anymore.

I miss reading good literature. I’ve been so wrapped up in market research, freelance writing, blog posts, outlining, editing, and shit, being a parent, that I haven’t made time to sit down and read for a while. And that’s silly, because learning from the work of other writers is half my job. I need to read materials that will propel me forward into the land of making money off of fulfilling my dream, and that includes pieces that are just truly masterful. Such is the case with Les Miserables.

I’m not trying to write a review here. The guy’s been dead for years and his work is a timeless classic–he doesn’t need the publicity. But when I read sentences like:

“He examined without wrath, and with the eye of a linguist who is deciphering a palimpsest, that portion of chaos which still exists in nature.”

Or how about:

“With the constellations of space they confound the stars of the abyss which are made in the soft mire of the puddle by the feet of ducks.”

Seriously, I miss writing like this.

I miss reading words that aren’t just a product.

I’ve spent so many hours reading the first chapter of the books in the top of my target categories on Amazon, and feeling like there’s so little musicality in their language. I miss beautiful speech. I miss the flowing dances of words.

Where’s the poetry? Where’s the sadness? Where’s the small tinge of something great that I can’t explain, but hits me right below the heart whenever I read prose with a sense of depth?

Oh well. This ten pages a day stint of mine has turned into a useful habit. I feel so refreshed after I finish for the evening, like my brain has just been cleansed of the other verbiage I’ve been sloshing around in. If you’re feeling stale, I highly recommend reading something good. I won’t lie, sometimes Victor Hugo can be dead boring, but once he’s finished making you shovel through a metric fuckton of seemingly irrelevant backstories and political history, he brings the fucking ruckus.

I completely agree with this. I’ve been re-reading Pride & Prejudice lately and the wit and language is just gorgeous. My favorite author growing up was L.M. Montgomery who worded the settings of her books like impressionist paintings. I miss writing like that. Any time my words get too flowery in a manuscript, my editors always trim me down because “purple prose” just isn’t in style anymore. However, at least we still have authors like Laini Taylor who are able to keep the love of words alive in mainstream commercial fiction. 🙂

If I had just seen the book on the shelf, I wouldn’t have picked it up to read it.

The musical helped me understand what is going on in the book. I wrote in the songs where their specific scene happened. So my knowledge of the musical really helped and motivated me to never give up on the book.

I think it makes sense to read works that you know to be good. Maybe knowing what others have been able to do will become a source of inspiration for you!

And since your mind is the source of all your work, it’s probably a good idea to “cleanse” it now and then. I’m sure it gets clogged with thoughts and words sometimes that get in the way of your thought process.